


Pracowita Bee

by Keitmeg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Enochian, Fainting, Fever Dreams, Gen, Grand Mal Seizure, Hallucifer, Hallucinations, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Sam, Hyperventilating, M/M, Mean Dean, Polish Mythology, Possessive Lucifer, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Shonen Ai, The Cage Flashbacks, Vomiting, but eventually capitulates, convulsions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keitmeg/pseuds/Keitmeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants to dig up lore on the two new threats walking the earth, but Sam is intent on going after regular hunts. At last, Sam decides to go solo and Dean rebukes him for it.<br/>Sam is working the case when things take a swan drive and he comes back different. And the punch line, he finds unexpected guests crashing at the bunker as well.</p><p>READ TAGS! You've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pracowita means busy in Polish, Busy Bee.  
> I might add more tags as the story progresses.

 

**Chapter One**

 

 

 **D** ean had guessed that maybe after their case of the werewolves dinning on the campers little fiasco, Sam was going to call it quit at least until all his gunshot wound stitches mended, But if Bobby was still around he’d confirm Dean’s fears in a sluggish uttered simile of 'Sam’s stubborn as an ox'. And after Dean had turned him down the four times Sam came to him with his tablet in hand gushing on about a new case, he had a slight doubt that that wasn’t enough to put a stop to his brother’s attempts to angle for getting them out of the bunker.

Now Dean has come to terms with himself about just how massively heavy his recent burdens are. And it hadn't been scarcely sufficient that he wasn’t exactly slow to react to the new threat his brother had unleashed in order to save him, but he suddenly had a crippling dose of reality when the feather-head of his best friend decided it was time to act foolish again in order to save everyone which –if Dean was truthful with himself enough to admit- never did anyone any good. It but only continued to show him how disappointing most of Castiel’s choices were, even if coated with good intentions.

 

The day announces a new morning arrival when the clock strikes kiss my ass.

Dean opens one eye and rolls over on the memory foam mattress to shut the alarm clock off with a grunt. God, he wants to soak up the permeated heat coming from beneath the covers, but he’s come to learn how hitting the snooze button screws your entire day, he’ll have Lew Wallace to thank for that, and no, he doesn’t know this name because he reads, it’s because it pays to have a geek for a brother. Dean is just as intelligent but with zero intention of applying it to stretch the breadth of his knowledge like Sam does, and he rather uses it to enhance his seduction tactics instead of letting them go rusty.

 

When Sam wakes up, he lingers over the bed just enough to yawn the leftovers of sleep. He walks out of his bedroom with drowsy eyes and saunters in a lethargic fashion. He can hear his blue-marine sweatpants whooshing as he treads towards the kitchen, barefooted. He takes the empty coffee pot to fill it with water, seeing that it’s empty gifts Sam with the thought that Dean hasn’t had coffee yet and is probably taking a shower at the moment.

He cracks the fatigue on his neck and rubs his face to clear his vision while waiting for the pot to get filled.

 

When Dean walks into the kitchen in his grey bathrobe, he sees Sam sitting at the table, radiant and hunched over his laptop. He shakes his head silently and walks to the coffee maker, flinging his brother a lazy ‘morning’.

Sam moves his eyes from the screen only briefly to eye his brother, “hey” and it’s all he says because it looks like what he’s reading is a lot more interesting than bidding social greetings.

“Any coffee left or you killed it?” Dean searches the counter with a furrow when he doesn’t find the pot.

“Um, no.” Sam denies hurriedly, “here, just brewed a fresh one.”

Looking over the table, Dean finds an empty coffee mug at the side across his brother and immediately realizes that Sam’s prepared it especially for him. He smiles, even if it’s tentative.

“Find anything?” He asks once he’s seated himself down on the swinging attached stool.

“Yeah.” his eyes widen for a fleeting moment and soon he’s scowling again, “I think so.”

If Dean is thrilled at the news, he doesn't let it take over his countenance, “On Amara, Lucifer, or how to waste them?”

Sam then looks up at him with quivering pupils, “ah, no, no.” he shakes his head slightly but it’s enough of a movement to make the tips of his side fringes flutter. “It’s a case.”

Dean looks down back at his half empty mug, showing his displeasure. _Here we go again_.

Sam straightens up over his stool and gulps the residual lump lodged down his throat, “apparently, a group of people went -um... rabid, biblical virus looks like.” saying so, he switches from looking at the screen to his brother’s faltering eyes.

“That blows.” he arches his brows slightly, “so let me guess, odd behavior and temporary madness?” He narrows those eyes on his brother’s.

Sam nods once to affirm the speculations, “three people died and one reported missing, they’re calling it a cult thing but they don’t exactly know what we know.”

Dean scratches the tip of his brow but eventually uses that hand to scrub his face, “OK, I’ll get somebody on it.”

“I was thinking maybe it’s best if _we_ go check it out.” Sam shrugs a shoulder, tentatively.

“Sam,” the other leans forward with a hard glare, “our plates are already full, don’t you think I want us to get back on the old tracks and solve those cases too?” He’s gestured at the two of them at some point and now he’s wrapping his hands around the mug, “but we’ve got bigger fish to fry, man. Lucifer is on the loose again and God’s snooty sister is probably exhorting her ire on innocent people.” He cuts himself off to let out a heaved sigh from his nose, “it’s bad, OK? And as much as I want to jump at the opportunity, I can’t.” He leans back a little, “and neither can you. The jig is up so it’s about time you wrap your head around it.”

Sam sighs indigently, “Yeah, but-"

Dean pushes himself off of the stool to make a point, “no buts, Sammy.” He holds up a hand, “there are other hunters to put on this, there isn’t just us.”

And with that, he closes the proverbial curtains of their small and evidently one-sided chatter, and walks out of the kitchen.

Sam slumps more on the stool, chewing on his bottom lip meditatively.

This is the fifth time his offer to work a case gets rejected by his moody brother. Even the fresh coffee pot did a poor job of bribing him. Sam looks at the obtrusively bright screen of his laptop and closes it down with a loud click to take half of his anger on it.

 

Dean has already changed into his flannel and straight jeans. Right now, he’s sitting at one of the library’s tables. And as the minutes go by while he buries himself in aged and thick books, digging up lore on anything related to The Archangels and The Darkness, he slowly feels the drag of time pulling on him. He’s never did studying well and sure he wasn’t going to start now. That’s always been one of his brother’s well-polished skills, so he should be the one doing this.

He takes another swig of his beer and sighs into his palms. It slowly starts to dawn on him, he isn’t going to find anything no matter how long they mainline lore the bunker has in its store. And all he has now is a big pile of worthless. There is nothing about any creation before the Leviathans and he’s pretty sure the Archangels didn’t stack up notes.

He leans on the chair's backrest, grabbing his beer bottle along and hearing its content slosh inside.

“Dean.” it’s Sam’s husky voice.

Said male swivels around. He eyes his brother’s cargo jeans, his flannel hidden under his khaki jacket and his logger boots. Lastly, his eyes settle on the light avocado green duffel laid neatly beside Sam’s leg.

“Going somewhere?”

Sam looks amused for a moment because he’s guessed his brother was going to feign ignorance. “Yes, Dean.” He licks his dry lips, “I’m going to work this case.”

Dean sends inquisitive brows up to his hairline and twirls his lips to show the other how impressed he is, but Sam knows too well that he isn’t. Dean takes another swig of his beer but his eyes never leave Sam’s.

“I’m sorry,” he raises both his hands and the bottle goes up too, “walk me through this, like I’m some freaking imbecile.” His gaze turns hard and piercing again. “Come on,” he urges, “pull up a chair and let’s chew the rag.”

“Look” Sam huffs out and his chest goes up-and-down, “as much as I want to sit and dig up lore on the two monsters walking the earth in human skin, I can’t, not when I know the bunker has zero to offer on God’s _sister_.” He presses his lips just a little, grappling inwardly for his next words, “the entire situation saddens me-"

“Oh yeah, I can see you all cheesed off.” Dean scoffs, momentarily looking away to take another reckless gulp of beer, but landing his eyes back on his brother’s.

“It does.” Sam says curtly and hardens his glare, “but incubating in here for days to wait on some honest-to-goodness info to finally hatch isn’t going to help anyone.”

“So what, you pack your stuff ready to move on to the next thing?” He shrugs, offhandedly.

Sam thrusts his hands into his side pockets and dips his chin for a moment, “I’m not. I’m just doing what I always do when we have Jack on our hands.”

“Right.” Dear drawls, playing with the bottle a little but eventually decides on discarding it on the table as he levels up to his feet, grunting almost silently at the effort and hearing his chair creak beneath him at the loss. “You’ve always been good at that too, you know?” He gives his brother a pointed look and can see Sam twitching his brows under the weight of his stare. “Bailing out the moment the goings get tough, well that’s about par for the course.”

Suddenly, Sam’s wide-eyed and innocent like a child, looking at his brother guilelessly.

Dean winces inwardly, and his brows twitch a little, even if it’s faint. _Dang, he went ahead and said it._

“You don’t mean that, Dean.” Sam gives a stutter-y chuckle and his eyes flutter.

And Dean wants to nod his head several times until his neck becomes sore or gives, he wants to deny the things he’s just said because if it really came down to it, looking out for his friends and family has always been high on Dean’s list of worthwhile things to do. He never wanted to blow his top and come down on his brother like a ton of bricks, not after the two of them have hit a rough patch and bounced back stronger, more trusting of each other and united in a world gone ‘topsy-curvy’.

Not after the kind of struggle the God’s cryptid made them go through from turning them against each other, and using them like rag toys -and when that proved futile because the Winchesters’ bond transcended that, they separated them.

And even as much as he hated to admit, but that was about the most devastating of all of their schemes, yet.

But Sam being hell-bent on going against his brother when he knows damn well that that never worked just triggers the remnants of his indignation towards his previous choice of taking up the Mark of Cain thus releasing the darkness, and his indignation toward the bond linking him to her enthralling existence, and there’s his indignation towards Castiel’s poor decision to say ‘Yes’ to Lucifer -biggest monster ever hatched.

“I mean every bit of it.” He bites out, begrudgingly,

And Sam’s eyes reeve about the room aimlessly, failing to land on his brother’s again. He lowers his head and gives a vacuous smile.

“I’m stumped, man.” Dean chucks his head to the back, disbelievingly, as if he’s just been told there was a God. “Lucifer is riding Cas’ meat suit and you’re acting like you couldn’t care less? I mean, come on.”

“I know that, Dean.” Sam’s voice goes deeper now as he tilts his head to prove his point, “but I can’t just coop up in here, though what I _can_ do is drive to that town, solve the case because people are _dying_.”

Dean puffs out a humorless snort, “spare me the sanctimonious crap, will you?” He rolls his eyes in a way that tells Sam the promise of a full-blown lambasting is soon to follow. “I know you, and I know you don’t really care about taking part of this drama since Lucifer joined the band, so don’t give me lip.”

Sam’s eyes dilate with shock. “That’s” -he shakes his head genuinely- “that’s not true.”

“Is that so?” He dares him like he knows what’s hidden, like he can see beneath Sam’s clothing, “then I must have been dreaming because every time I glance at your boyfriend of a laptop, you’re either looking up hunts or checking your emails, and I don’t really see how that’s going to help us bring Cas back, or ice the darkness or send Lucifer back to the hole he crawled out of.”

When Sam only flares his nose at him, Dean can’t really alter his train of very deviled thoughts promising to make his brother’s heart ache with insufferable agony.

“Maybe you’re, I don’t know, scared?” He shrugs slightly, “but get this, Cas’ been a big help ever since he popped up on us at that barn, he brought me back from Hell, and brought _you_ back from the Cage, well, half of you but not a token gesture.” He swings his index, “He’s healed us and fought alongside with us, and you’re starting a new the moment he’s checked out of the room?” He scrunches his face with distaste, “after all the crap you’ve pulled I thought you’d at least learned by now how to take the rap, especially now that you’ve unhitched the darkness, that’s pretty bogus, man.”

Sam’s doleful eyes finally meet his brother’s emerald ones, “I thought we were over it.”

“Yea well” -Dean knots his brows harder now- “I guess we aren’t, and actions run deeper than words, so there’s that.”

Sam closes his eyes for a moment to steady his thoughts, he waits until his inhaling and exhaling has evened out. He looks at his brother again, he sees hints of that famous _No back talk, I’m warning you or so help me God_ look and a wan smile invades his curvy lips, dearest dimples and all.

“Lucifer scares me, and that’s no breaking news.” he admits with a defiant toss of his head, “and Cas is my friend too, I’d take it all back if I could, I’d stop him from allowing capital S Satan in him if it was in my power, but I can’t.” He wets his lips and finally musters enough courage to look directly into his brother’s green eyes. “Every night, I remind myself of every failure, every mistake and bad choice I made, I see those people who died because of me in my dreams, and I don’t want to run from that because I’ll have to live with it until my last breath. Not atonement, but it’s the least I can do.” He lets out a full-bodied sigh with his eyes aglow under the light, “but I haven’t forgotten who I am, Dean. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you as you try to guilt trip me into holing up in here. There’s a case, and I’m going to go and solve it because that’s what hunters do.”

Dean’s tongue snakes under the roof of his mouth, watching Sam as closely as he watches the wooden floor.

Speechless at his brother’s argumentation, for standing his ground and for basically standing up to his verbally derogating admonition, Dean wants to tap his brother on the back and praise his strength. But hard as he tries he can't see a way out except by dismissing his brother for now.

But before even his order comes in words, Sam is quick to carry his duffel and fling it over his shoulder. He eyes his brother and rakes a trembling hand through his own hair. “I’ll text you when I get there.” He gives a dimpled yet vague smile to hide the unspeakable feelings roaming his countenance, “don’t stay up.” And just like that, he zigs towards the staircase, finally leaving the bunker in a heavy silence.

Dean takes his eyes off of the library’s entrance and zooms in on the valuable books scattered on the table. He suddenly feels irked, anger boiling through his veins, he throws the empty beer bottle to the floor and its shattering resonates through the sheltering walls, it ticks him off more and he tosses the books on the table as well, finding a fleeting relief in doing so.

 

Later that night, Dean receives a text message from his brother that simply says:

 [Case requires more digging, so I holed up in a motel for the night. I’ll let you on in the details tomorrow, good night.]

Dean looks around at his room from his bed, the light of the lamps, however faint, illuminates all the corners.

He’s retreated to his room at last after going through some books, including the ones he flung over the floor. He had to recollect them eventually because he didn’t have anywhere else to extract info from -not that they ere any help.

He hits the Reply box but stares blankly at it.

Taking in the Winchesters’ history of unresolved emotions, Dean had long since discarded the idea of sharing. It was this side of his father’s characteristics that rubbed off on his older son that now he takes too much pride in keeping a stoic face, and evading the chick-flick road that his brother, Sam, who wears his heart on his sleeves, is always trying so hard to drag him down to.

So he refocuses his eyes on his phone’s screen, searching in his mental mémoire of the proper words to use in this situation. But all that comes is: [OK. Night]

Flinging the phone over the nightstand again, he rubs the undesirable dryness off of his face with a sweaty hand. And soon, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, closing his eyes even though he knows there is no sleep to hope for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta-ed. All mistakes are mine. Feel free to correct or con-cri.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**Chapter Two**

 

 

 

The pungent smell of feminine cologne faintly wafting in the air is the first thing that meets Sam as he ducks through the entrance of the bunker’s front door.

Three days. That’s how long the wrongly postulated biblical virus case took for him to finish and finally come home. Of course, he kept his brother in loop for every development and progress made because he had related the case to The Darkness –which proved wrong at the end by the way, and although the conversations on the phone were usually one-sided, he knew better than to keep working on and not contact Dean at all. It was already bad enough that he ventured out by himself. Provoking his brother, who’s been in more than just a cynical mood the past few days, was indeed a scary thing to put in mind or even consider.

Sam adjusts the weight of the duffel over his shoulder and descends the few stairs. All the while, his eyes roam about the war room in hopes to spot his brother after the long days spent separated. But all he finds is the lit map table. The prickle in the back of his nose as the perfume lingers inside the window-less walls lingers uninvited. Dean wouldn’t bring any women here, he knows his brother and no matter how sexually valiant he used to be –eye-fucking every feminine figure with a pulse and jonesing for skin contact with every waitress or damsel in distress they come across on their hunts– he still wouldn’t bring any women to the bunker.

The bunker was his and Dean's. Theirs alone.

With his mind set, Sam surges on and takes the stairs to the illuminated library, and from the door, he sees Dean on the chair he usually claims. Sam doesn’t remember Dean shouting first dibs on that chair –or anything else for that matter, but it’s sort of a silent rule that whosoever claims something first, it becomes his. Dean is relaxed in his blue flannel and dark jeans, scrolling down his laptop with a few beer bottles and fat books strewn open over the said table.

“Hey.” Sam greets, but heedful to keep his voice down to almost a whisper. Though he knows Dean must know by the door’s rattling and the text message telling his brother he was making the trip back home that he’s already here. Coming in and jovially flinging greetings still doesn’t pass for a good idea seeing how also Dean has got the place so dimly lit. He walks in anyhow when Dean looks up from his laptop and lifts his eyebrows momentarily, greeting his brother back. He knows Dean isn’t going to ask about the case because Sam has already filled him in with details over the phone and the two of them know he has taken care of it. Even knowing that, Sam can’t help but feel the twinge of missing his brother festering in his heart without mercy. He stands by his brother’s chair and takes a moment to wet his lips and clear his throat before he asks Dean how he spent his days, discerning the endless bottles now, Sam swallows back his words.

“I see you’ve been pampering yourself,” he notes out, and winces inwardly when Dean only glowers at him fleetingly before looking back at the screen of his laptop, and Sam, the observant hunter that he is, doesn’t fail to notice the dark bags under his brother’s eyes, “Geez, did you get any sleep at all?”

Dean sighs tiredly, “yeah well, with you gone, I kind of got stuck with all the reading so no, not a lot of sleep was involved” -he lifts a half empty bottle to his lips and smirks around its neck- “and not in the festive way, if you take my meaning.” Winking, he chugs down the last contents in one gulp before discarding the bottle just like the rest of the empty ones.

The heated argument the two of them had had before Sam left suddenly replays in his head and if he had any disagreement of his own about Dean’s decision to idle away hours of healthy sleep in favor of digging up lore on the new most challenging threats roaming God’s earth that he sure as hell he won’t find, he’s decided to keep it all to himself. He only rummages inside the side pocket of his khaki jacket and takes out the keys to the Impala. “Here,” placing them over the table, Sam swivels around and leaves.

It could have been worse, Sam thinks. Honestly, with Dean, you never know if you’re going to get punched in the mouth, or ignored or what. So Sam knows for a fact that that went just fine, almost too perfectly if he has the audacity to admit.

 He walks through the corridor and the same perfume penetrates his nose again, but the thought that Dean could never overstep his boundaries and bring home a girl for the night takes him out of his mental frenzy, if only a little. When he approaches Dean’s bedroom, he can’t help but peek through the door left ajar, it’s always left ajar. The OCD neat room tells him that no one is inside, he exhales; well he doesn’t exactly know what he might find or if he’s going to at all, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try, and when the effort proves fruitless, he saunters on to his room.

 

Dean, on the other hand, is glad that Sam is finally home unscathed and safe. He won’t deny how, at one point, he wanted nothing but to grab his duffel and go after his little brother. Perhaps, in retrospect, that should have been his plan, but his pride wouldn’t let him have it. And here he is, three days after and he’s got zilch on God’s psycho sister and his two sons riding the same meat-suit, when, contrary to him, his brother has most likely put his life on the line, _again_ , and has saved as many people as his selfless heart can.

He would listen to three hours of some feather-head preaching about the greater good before he admits this to anyone with a heartbeat, Impala included, but maybe Sam was right all along. Yet no matter how Dean looks at it, he still tries to believe that that doesn’t make his decision to stay less right either. He knows they have an obligation to clean their mess before any more people could get hurt. And until Sam gets this into that thick skull of his, Dean isn’t going to back down on his decision.

 

The water pressure is unbelievable, Sam sighs with satisfaction, and the relief that accompanies the process of water washing his body clean grows immense. It’s soon interrupted by a nagging sensation at his side. He slides cautious fingers to grope the gunshot wound, it’s merely a purplish half a centimeter deep hole now but the story behind it takes Sam into a massive throwback, to the near-death experience, to the feelings of hopelessness and to the realization that his brother downed a whole bunch of pills to kill himself and get him a one-in-a-lifetime deal with Billie which –if Sam recalls– didn’t really go as planned. Remembering all this makes something in the back of Sam’s skull beat with a dull pang. They’ve been through so much, too much. There is only a handful of smile worthy memories that he can grip at, much to his chagrin. Tormenting himself with days like that one with the werewolves in the woods was only going to metaphorically work him over, and quite honestly, he doesn’t want to open that can of worms because he simply has no energy for it, not when the wound is still so fresh, literally too.

The nagging sensation in his side is back to harass him, and it gradually adapts an itching notch. Soon he finds himself bending to try to peer through the scar to see if it's infected, and the fleeting thought of how his body is littered with scars, yet the gunshot wound is the most terrifying actually goes ignored by him

He finds nothing.

Sam finally gets out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist, a cloud of steam follows him as he walks out, barefooted. He can feel his muscles no longer ache so badly, the tarrying remnants of the pain are barely noticeable by now, but he’s a survivor, he’s seen worse. With a yawn, he makes his way to the kitchen. In his eyes right now, he can only see water that he will swallow down without a break, preferably cold because his parched throat is tingling for it.

He opens the fridge door, the bewilderment slowly settles over his face after he sees food containers and plastic boxes stacked inside the fridge. He takes one and opens it, sniffing in the scent of lasagna that immediately makes his mouth drool. This can’t be the doing of Dean. Alright, he knows Dean can cook, but never _this_ good. Take the Elvis burger from the other day as an example, that thing Dean calls food gives people slow deaths, and Sam has learned how to appreciate good food, this lasagna is definitely good food. Never mind, he’ll ask Dean where he got all this food from after he drinks, that is, if he isn’t given the silent treatment. He isn’t the least disappointed when he finds a plastic bottle filled to the brim in the door of the fridge, he unscrews the cap and drinks to his heart’s content.

“That hit the spot, I can tell.” A female voice drones behind him.

Sam spins around so quickly he’s amazed his towel didn’t fall. He ignores the thought when he sees Claire Novak looking amused at him. Defiant with her large blue eyes and dark clothes, and with some miracle, Sam manages not to roll his eyes at how far the lengths she would go to in order to give people the impression she is still, in fact, a bad-ass. She really is, doesn’t she already know?

She eyes him from head to toe, and if that insufferable smirk is anything to go by, she seems very entertained. “Not bad, giant.”

Sam and Dean have never had any qualms with wandering through the halls like this –half naked– after a shower; he still remembers how the two would leave their motel’s bathroom’s door open even if it’s just the two of them. And adding to that, they finally have a place they call their own, so Sam never really had to be careful in here, nor did Dean. Suddenly aware of this, Sam blushes and hugs his arms to his chest, “What’ you doing here?”

“Way to greet your guests.” She tilts her head in a patronizing manner and shrugs, “Dean didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

She lets out a small sigh before sinking onto one of the stool chairs of the kitchen table the brothers usually eat at, “we got a little visit from Cass –although he wasn’t Cass anymore. He decided to drop by uninvited.”

Sam’s throat thickens at the news because he knows who’s driving that bus, and because a few days ago, he got a visit from the same archangel. The revelation actually horrifies him that he only stares blankly.

She cocks a brow at him and asks, “you don’t look very surprised.”

He shakes his head, out of his conscious stupor, and furrows to show his worry, “sorry” he says hurriedly, “what happened?”

“Nothing good.” She offers with a nonchalant shrug, “Sherriff Mills got tossed a few times, and defenestrated. She’s lucky she got out of it alive.” There’s a hint of remorse about her face that Sam doesn’t fail to notice,. “Me and Alex were at school when the shit hit the fan, so when we learned about what happened I called Dean and he told us to come here. We arrived yesterday.”

Which also explains the food containers in the refrigerator.

Sam ignores the fact that Dean hid this from him, even if it hurt him to know, and only focuses on the matter at hand, “so where’s Jody and Alex?”

Claire waves a lackadaisical hand over her shoulder, “Jody’s out, working. Alex is somewhere here in the bunker, and speaking of which, I gotta say, this place is awesome.”

Faltering with a smile, Sam nods, “it is, and it’s also safe so it’s probably best that you stay.” So Dean was right by inviting them over, but it still doesn’t compensate with his, if he may, selfish decision to hide this important detail from Sam. True, Sam wasn’t even home when all this happened, but there is this little thing the people of the 21st century use for communication called cellphone that Dean could use to inform his little brother of how far Lucifer would go to hurt the ones the Winchesters care about.

“Dean told us you were working a case,” She says, and Sam nods to the question before it comes in words. “Cool.” She grins mischievously, “so what did you find? How did it go? _Details_.”

He can see how Claire is skillfully trying to keep the conversation steady, and he appreciates her effort and even decides to help her even though he is certainly against loitering in front of her with just a towel covering his jewels. “Well,” he shifts his weight to the other leg, “at first, it was some sort of biblical virus, at least it looked like it. I came across that once and I thought it fit the profile, but when I got there and checked the bodies, I knew I was up against something different.”

She frowns worriedly; it’s almost laughable how intrigued she is with hunts and gigs. Sam can almost see some similarities between her and Dean, “so what was it?”

“Turned out the vics – _victims,_ got poisoned by a temperamental deity.” He blows out a full-bodied sigh, now cupping the edge of the counter he’s leaning against, “Leshy.”

Her brows fly to her hair line and she chortles, “You serious? Thought only demons and angels get a free pass, werewolves and vampires too when the tough get going, and because I’ve seen them before too but that’s about it.”

“You’ll be surprised at how many deities we’ve ganked before.” He tells her with a smug face, and it’s only when she looks somewhere over the floor with a stupid face that is still processing the idea that deities exist too that the itching in Sam’s scarred wound returns, more pronounced now. He wraps his arm around his middle to palm the wound and generally to distract himself before he voices his discomfort, deciding eventually to just scoot from the place all together. “Um- I need to...”

When she looks up at him, he motions at his body with his other unoccupied hand, and comprehension downs on her and she nods fervently. “Of course,” she says. “Although, you still owe me a story. You’ve gotta tell me how you took care of it.”

“Definitely.” He said, now scurrying out of the kitchen, knowing the girl is following him with her eyes.

**~~~~~~**

On the way to his room, he contemplates the odds of Lucifer disturbing the peaceful lifestyle Jodie has managed to maintain for her new family after the past events, and of his sudden visit to Sam back in his motel room. He rules it to tell his brother about it later and see to it what might come after, and he hopes that Lucifer won’t go further than this. When he reaches his room, the wound is more than an itching mess, it’s uncomfortable and irritating, in the sense that he can’t scratch it because whatever is causing it, it’s doing it from the inside.

He ignores the unsettling feeling in favor of knowing what happened to Jodie. He guesses she insisted on doing her job despite the danger, because that’s the kind of person she is: fearless.

He puts on his blue T and grey sweatpants and makes for the door. He resolves it with his harmless mind that he is better off ignoring the maddening itching taking place inside the remainder of the gunshot wound, to suck it up, as he’s been taught all his life. When he enters the arched entrance of the library with his laptop in hand, only Alex is there, relaxed in a beige gown with her dark hair wrapped in a neat ponytail.

“Hey,” he presses his lips and lifts his brows in acknowledgment, “how’ you doing?”

She smiles back, closes the book in her hand and shrugs, “can’t complain.”

He sits beside her. He places the laptop on the table and sags in his chair, “must been hard.” He comments, “You did good by calling Dean. You can leave it to us now, Dean and I will take care of the rest.”

Alex looks down, something between confusion and hopelessness veils her features, “He was _so_ powerful,” she says, as if the disclosure alone did a number on her, “none of the guns worked on him, and I didn’t believe it when Clair said he’s an angel, I mean do they even exist?”

Sam nods, “and they aren’t very nice either.”

She puffs out a small sigh from her nose and nods, “kinda figured.” She admits, “But it sort of makes you wonder where this might be going.”

Sam doesn’t want to do that, dredge up possible scenarios to Lucifer’s walking the Earth, wreaking havoc as he pleases. It agitates him, but it’s not like mulling over a problem of sort will end it, which never works, his hunting life taught him so. “Where’s Dean?”

She shakes herself out of her thoughts and glances around, “He said he’d pick up Jodie,” she reports, “her car got crushed and she doesn’t really know the right location to this place.”

Sam nods his understanding. Then Claire joins them too, still looking defiant as experience of life been so tough on her, Sam thinks, losing her parents like that. But as far as he is considered, most of the people him and his brother came across had that kind of background, and as much as it’s sad, he thinks that it’d have been worse.

It’s only when they’re talking about Claire finally attending school that the nagging sensation at Sam’s side comes back with a vengeance. He wraps his left arm around the place just to ease some of the irritation growing unbearable, and to hide his discomfort from the two girls, who are obviously flinging him questionable glances.

 

It’s seven thirty in the evening when Dean and Jodie make it to the bunker. Sam is standing by the stairs, waiting for Jodie to come down to take him into one of her famous motherly hugs. He notices the few cuts and blue-purpule scars on her face.

“Sam,” she relents, wrapping her arms around him, “it’s so good to finally see you, took you long enough to join the drama.”

Sam pulls away with an amiable smile, “yea, been working a case.”

Jodie looks over her shoulder at Dean, and then back at Sam, “Oh, I’ve heard.”

So he’s gone out to her and complained like a kid. Well done, Dean.

Sam dismisses the thought, for the moment that is, and he looks Jodie over intently, “you’re hurt all over.”

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you Sam?” Dean scoffs, and as Sam glares at him, Dean switches Jodie’s bag to his other hand and doesn’t even look Sam’s way when he walks past him.

So the silent treatment it is.

Sam’s eyes drop to the floor, and only when Jodie pats his shoulder does he realize he’s spacing out again, “Come in.” He asks of her, moving his hands noncommittally, “Let’s have dinner.”

 

Sam walks into the kitchen, determined to help, Dean looks over his shoulder and ignores the 6’4 slouching like a little kid beside the door, distracting himself with slicing potato chips.

Sam knows he’s in for a rough ride, and he knows for a fact that Dean becomes absolutely hard to approach when he’s in this kind of cynical mood. But he doesn’t see any other better tactic than close in on Dean’s silence and tear it apart upfront, that is, if his brother doesn’t retaliate the wrong way. It happened before, it might again. He walks over, pulls a kitchen knife and starts slicing the one scrawny potato he chose from the heap. Of course he noticed how Dean rolls his eyes and moves away, it bothers Sam, and he hates this.

“Dean, we need to talk.” He says after clearing his throat.

Dean doesn’t even look up as he says, “yea? About?”

Sam forgets about slicing potatoes because he deems this conversation more important, “about Lucifer.”

“So you decided this after you bailed out on me and Cas or you just got the inspiration?” Dean asks, now turning around very slowly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully at his little brother, “because, it’s funny, last time I checked, Sammy, you jumped outta the boat.”

It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes, but Dean detects it and retorts anyhow.

“No,” he says, waving the knife he has in his hand, “you don’t get to gimme the hairy eyeball, we clear about that? And you don’t get to preach me about saving Cas because you’ve proved your point the minute you went outta’ that door, so stop, okay? Whatever you wanna talk about, I don’t think I wanna hear it.”

And that pretty much settles it.

So maybe Dean’s right. But Sam’s saved people, doesn’t that count for anything?

Sam bites his bottom lip as he meets Dean’s hard gaze, faltering under its weight. And then he leaves altogether.

 

Dean snakes his tongue out in frustration, and for a second, he wants nothing but to use that knife in his hand to slice everything up. That sad look in Sam’s eyes is the one thing he absolutely hates to see. But Sam’s gone too far this time; he needs to learn how wrong he was, preferably the hard way. And no, not even the puppy eyes of doom can save him from big brother’s wrath.

 

Sam returns to his room after telling Jodie he wasn’t up to stomach any food and he only wanted to rest, and she left him to it.

As he lays his head on his pillow, he replays the events of today. It slowly starts to sink in how horribly wrong he’s been, bailing out on his brother and their angel friend. He convinces himself, although he doesn’t know why, that he is to blame for everything. The pang he felt inside his head earlier has intensified by now, due to stress, he thinks, and if there’s something he hates most after letting down his brother, it’s damn migraines. He swallows a Tylenol tablet on the dry, hoping it’d be more effective that way. He slowly drowns in the realm of dreams.

**~~~~~~**

Things keep on that way for the next couple of days with the only Winchesters giving each other the cold shoulder and not even looking each other’s way. And honestly, it's driving Claire up the walls. So, okay, fine, this archangel called Lucifer or whatever his name is is out there, so it’s safer inside the bunker that’s protected by the sigils, but Wi-Fi and Netflix can’t possibly compensate the insufferable boredom. If it isn’t much of a kick to the balls, the way the brothers have been treating each other is working on some of the nerves she didn’t know she had before. So she decides to get all the family together around one table, so even Dean and Sam can make up and let go of that hard streak they have handling each other. She offers the idea to Alex, who doesn’t show much interest for anything, she actually lightens up and agrees.  Claire has to show how impressed she is with the length of their friendship now, how she and Alex went beyond those walls of insecurities and exile to prove that they care about each other in their own special way. It’s true that Claire used to feel very left out, especially after coming late to the party, but Jodie, with her care and patience, proved all Claire’s suspicion to be wrong. Now, Claire will stop at nothing to protect her small family, and she will continue to go to school and follow on Jodie’s teaching of investigations, because that’s where her real passion lies.

So in the next day, before Jodie and Dean came back home, Claire and Alex prepare a decent meal. Claire actually prepares a salad, which, if Alex cared to admit, was quite the humanitarian achievement, and, miracle of miracles, they didn’t set the bunker on fire. They’re doing more than pretty good, they’re rocking it. Before they set the table, they decide that they don’t want to eat in the kitchen tonight, the table in the library is way better. They set the plan on motion and when it’s all said and done, Claire volunteers to go to Sam’s room to call him.

As she nears it, she can almost feel an odd heat radiating off. She knocks on the door a few times, calling Sam’s name out and telling him to come and have dinner. When he doesn’t answer her back, she finds no other option but to open the door, and she hopes he is dressed. She’d be in for an awkward moment if he isn’t. She edges the door slowly open and peers inside, the faint lights of the lamp is what helps her see what’s inside. She spots Sam crouched over himself on the bed, with his right arm wrapped around his middle, the way he’s been doing since she popped up on him three-four days ago. It doesn’t escape her notice the signs of discomfort over his face, how he’s scrunching it and glaring almost vacantly at some place over the plank.

“Sam?”

He jerks ferociously and straightens up, now snapping his head to her direction.

“Dinner.” She says in a careful tone.

He nods and gives a grimaced smile. And her heart almost breaks at that face. She nods back, faintly, and then she retreats from the room.

 

Moments later, Sam saunters into the kitchen but Alex directs him to the library, and he warns them in a playful manner about Dean’s possible lambasting to the library getting sauce stains on its walls and expensive wood flooring.

Just as they’re commenting on Dean’s OCD, said male walks through the steel gate, accompanied by Jodie with some files in her hand. It’s not really that difficult to guess that half of those are notes given to Claire and Alex from their school. And much to their surprise, he actually finds the idea of eating in the library with the lamp shades quite refreshing.

So Jodie is telling them about a possible case of werewolves somewhere near the towns she lives at when something piques at Sam’s attention, he looks at everyone from his place: Dean is sitting at the head of the table, Jodie and Claire on either side of the table, and Alex and himself sitting next to each other by Claire’s side. He hears a jingling sound resonate through the hall, very faint though. He prompts up, swallowing noisily. He knows that sound so well, he hates it with every fiber in him. A few years ago, that was the onset of his madness. And he prays it isn’t the case. He doesn’t know to whom he is praying, he just does it for reassurance. His right arm slides from the table down to his wound, hiding it defensively for no apparent reason, just out of habit, he presumes. He lifts his blue-hazel eyes and what he finds makes his breath hitch so violently.

 

The hitching sound alerts Dean and he looks his brother’s way, beholding him for any unusual signs, and he finds plenty.

Sam is looking somewhere over Jodie’s shoulder, his eyebrows quivering and his chest rising up and down with his lips left apart. And it worries Dean a little. He calls him out, just to draw his attention back to the things they’re talking about jointly. But Sam is still focused on the same spot, his breathing growing evidently unsteady.

 

He’s standing there, a complacent sneer masking his lips and an unusual glint brimming inside his icy-blue eyes.

It’s Lucifer wearing Nick’s meatsuit.

Sam knows this is just another hallucination, he knows Lucifer is riding Cas across the country, so this can’t possibly be the real deal.

 

“Sam!” Dean bellows.

It finally takes Sam out of his frenzy, and he actually flinches discernibly hard. His eyes transfix on Dean’s, and it’s probably the first time in a few long days that he looked his brother directly in the eyes. It immediately grounds him. He lifts lazy brows at him, demanding what’s the matter, which, son of a bitch, hasn’t he noticed his behavior lately?

It’s only then that Sam realizes that the girls have asked them to let them in on snippets of what’s going on, and when Dean turned their offer down with the justification of hating to place them in any more danger than he already had, the girls have actually insisted he talks because they’re already in too deep. And they have been in the process of talking about ways of saving Cas when Sam started to space out again.

 

“Seriously,  Sam.” Dean makes to chew his bottom lip, but he aborts the gesture, deciding to twine his fingers to prop his chin on, “Does any of this mean a thing to you or are we just boring you outta your mind?”

Sam’s brows quiver. He quickly shakes his head, too fervently for his taste.

“Do I have your attention now?” Dean asks, his tone dropping a little dangerously.

Sam nods again, wrapping his arms around his middle. Dean, a little unconvinced, shakes his head sadly at his brother and sighs with a little disgruntlement.

Sam doesn’t want to disappoint his brother again, so he tries to ignore the hallucination, because, as personal experience taught him five or so odd years ago, that man isn’t even real. But when Lucifer’s wry smirk deepens and he approaches Sam, the latter can’t help but show more signs of displeasure.

Dean looks at his brother again, he can see his eyes fluttering shot and his head slowly tilting to the side until his hair tips. His furrow deepens and Dean could swear he heard Sam utter a whispered “D-… don’t”.

“Sam!” Dean bawls again, the crease over his forehead growing deeper.

Sam’s eyes shoot open, wide and innocent with their undying glimmer which Dean’s seen more times than he cares to count, and then Sam gives a serene smile, “can I go to my room now?”

Dean sags back in his chair, chewing down his bottom lip with a little too much force.

“I’m tired,” Sam says, rubbing his temples with two shaky thumbs, “I wanna lie down.”

It amuses Dean to no end at how his brother is so carefree at a time like this. “Well, it’s not like you’re any help to begin with.”

“Dean,” Sam’s eyes do that slight flutter again, “I’m not feeling well, I just wanna lie down a little.”

Dean raises placating hands, his lips curving from the corner, “no one’s stopping you, bud.” He says, “like I said, ‘s not like you’re needed anyway.” Saying so, he lifts that glass of whiskey to his lips and slugs it down in one gulp.

Sam is about to harp on Dean to quit drinking, aim for a healthier life now that they have a kitchen of their own, but he knows he’s beside himself about Cas’ misfortune and no words can undo what had been done. He guesses that maybe a little joke can lighten up the mood.  “I’m sure Lucifer and Amara will still be there tomorrow, it’s not like they're running on half tanks.”

As the girls nod, showing their support, Dean scoffs and arches a cocky brow at him.  “Humor is not your strong suit, Sammy.” He says, and he ignores how Jodie and the two other girls fling scathing glares his way, “and here’s a lil’ piece of advice, next time you try to crack a joke, don’t.”

When Sam only stares back, Dean can’t help but tease him more, a little payback for playing Mr. insensible when Dean is worrying his brains out about his best friend.

“Actually,” he leans in, taking another swig of his whiskey bottle, “you’re your most perky self when you don’t speak, _at all_.”

The brothers fall into a glaring contest, and Sam is the first to admit defeat as he looks away, lifting off of his chair with a little grimace of pain that Dean didn’t fail to notice, “Goodnight everyone.”

 

Dean ignores Jodie and her reproaching words about the importance of family, he knows what he’s doing and he isn’t going to sit here and listen to her treating him like a kid who bullies his brother. He also bids them goodnight and retreats to his own room after taking his dish to the kitchen sink.

 

When Sam wakes up, he knows it’s still early in the morning, and if it wasn’t for the pain in his head and wound hollering for attention, he’d still be sleeping so soundly. So he takes care of his morning rituals despite the lethargic movements. He thinks he’s this way this morning probably because he didn’t sleep enough, and there was no trace of Lucifer inside his room either, so he tolerates it. He ignores the itching in his side and the blistering headache, but he couldn't anymore when dizziness joined in and went up a few notches. He empties his stomach’s contents that weren’t even much to begin with into the toilet bowl, retching into it with intermittent whimpers between every heaving.  And it’s then that he hears Jodie pounding on the door, asking if he’s alright. He opens the door for her, she examines his pale complexion with a look of distaste about her face.

“You look awful, Winchester.”

He chuckles tiredly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, “upset stomach, but I’ll be fine if I keep hydrate.”

“It ain’t looking that cut and dry, boy.” She shakes her head, eyeing more of his complexion, “how about a check-up from someone professional, like a doctor maybe?”

“No,” Sam deadpans, turning the offer down right away, “told you I’ll be fine, you don’t worry yourself, and” he tells her after she lifts defeated brows at him, “don’t tell Dean about this.”

She stares blankly at him, something fathomable twirls within her loving eyes, and then she narrows her eyes at him and ask, “you sure? He might want to know though.”

“Yea,” Sam rubs his nape with a faint blush over his pale cheeks, “he’s got enough on his plate as it is, I don’t wanna ‘pile it on with a simple stomachache. I can deal.”

She acquiesces to his wishes eventually, respecting that bond the two brothers have, sucking up sickness to keep life going.

 

That morning, he skips breakfast because his stomach is adamant on exiling all that which intrudes its quiet.

Later that day, as everyone –sans Jodie, is shuffling through books and looking for any answer to their current dilemma, Dean pushes his chair until it squeaks over the plank, making everyone flinch. They watch as he dons his jacket and picks his keys from the clump of books, papers and hell knows what else over the table, and he tells them to get back to what they’re doing and that he’ll be back soon.

 

A few hours into the day, Alex asks Sam to accompany her to the storage room to look for a certain book, which he doesn’t say no to and accepts with a placid smile.

“What’s up with you two lately?” She asks once they’ve entered the room and are going from a shelf to another, “you’ve been at each other’s throat like cats and dogs.”

Sam shrugs flippantly, eyes on the shelf he’s standing by, “stresses of the job.” This is his way of explaining his and his brother’s tensed differences to those who try to pry.

“Dean’s got a real mean-streak, I tell you that,” she adds, conversationally, “not saying I ever pegged him for a softie, but he tends to act so sweet sometimes, especially when it concerns you.”

Sam scoffs.

Obviously, she hears him, “it’s true though,” she says somewhere behind the shelves, “this fight has got to stop. I just can’t take it when guys act so stubborn when it’s a simple kiss and make up.”

But it’s not like things should go the way Alex wants. There are things others don’t understand. There are things other people have no say over, and have no right to comment on in the first place. So he keeps silent, gifting her with the illusion that he’s taking it to heart and mulling her words over just so she’d read the sign and stop poking her nose into what she shouldn’t.

 

“I couldn’t agree more.” Lucifer whispers the words into Sam’s ears.

Sam snaps his head around with a pair of horrified eyes.

Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs a shoulder, “I don’t understand people and their prying.” He says, “It’s already enough that they got you separated from your dear brother once.”

Sam’s face hardens.

“But you see,” Lucifer loosens his hands and approaches Sam, licking his own upper lip, “you two’ got something going on there,” he says, closing in on Sam as the latter steps back and finally meets the shelf, “it bugs me.”

“This isn’t real.” Sam huffs as a whisper at first, but when Lucifer strangulates him, his struggle grows more spoken. “You’re not real.”

 

“Sam?” Alex looms in his sight, worried and beautiful.

When Lucifer disappears, Sam lets out a lungful of air, but he fails to take it back in again. His chest starts heaving, going after scraps of air but failing to catch any.

“Just breathe,” Alex prompts, “you’ll find your way around it, Sam.” She says, “It’s just a panic attack, it’s nothing compared to the things you’ve seen before.”

Sam agrees, but clutches his chest until the blood drains from his knuckles. His head tilts back, trying to calm down and find his feet.

“Sam, please,” Alex pleads with a terrified tone, “you’re scaring me.”

He didn’t mean for any of this. He didn’t mean for a lot of things to happen, but they happened anyway.  And here he is, freaking out over a hallucination that he’s seen before, and beat before. But that was because Cas could shift it, or whatever, but Cas has long since left the boat, and if this hallucinating episodes are starting again like before, there’s nothing that could stop it, or heal it. This is what scares him the most.

He eventually listens to Alex’s coaching, following her assuring promises that they’ll figure it out, the way the Winchesters taught her.

When he finds his grounds, his knees buckle with the relief and he slides down, tired after all the heaving he’s done since the morning.

“What was the trigger?” Alex asks, now squatting before him, “you were fine just now, I don’t think we talked about anything that traumatic.”

He waves her investigating off, and he makes her promise not to speak a word of this to anyone, which she finds hard to do at first, but eventually capitulates when he operates his puppy eyes of doom on her.


	3. Chapter 3

****

 

What they’re in dire need to do right now is outcast Lucifer from Cass’ vessel, search for Metatron for answers–he’s the fucking Scribe of God, of course he has answers, and then get the band back together for one glorious purpose: gang The Darkness once and for all.

They can deal with freaking Lucifer later, one life-ending threat at a time.

The red light flickers back to green and Dean stomps on the accelerator, bringing the wheels to a faster momentum. He glances over at the empty seat adjacent to his with an occupied brow and a deep scowl, and then he switches to look out the windshield, an endless web of roads and rows of trees, the road to Esbon, KS.

Dean came across this salt-and-burn when he was scrolling down his laptop, busying himself from any company that included his little brother, Sam. It’s true that the silent treatment was a little taking it too far, but he said it before, and he’ll say it again, Sam needs to learn not to cross the line again. Morals or not, he crossed the line by going off solo, especially in a time like this. The only reason why Dean is doing this –driving to the neighboring town, is, first, it’s just a simple salt-and-burn, he can take care of it, and second, if he’s a little honest with himself, is to spite little brother.

He remembers Sam lingering by the handrail of the stairs, shoulders drooped and features scrunched in, whining about wanting to tag along.

 

 

_“Dean, this is ridiculous.” Sam whined, arms wrapped around his middle._

_Dean tightened his grip on the straps of his duffel and glowered at his brother, “out of my way.”_

_Sam uncrossed his arms and shuffled closer to his brother, countenance relenting, “No more unilateral decisions, remember?”_

_Dean gave a lopsided smile and tilted his head, amused, “big words, college boy, and that might have worked, heck let’s say before you Han-Soloed Leshy by yourself.”_

_“I was wrong, I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.” Sam made an aborted movement, like he wanted to touch his brother on the arm but some unspoken thought prevented it. “It’s hectic upstairs, come on, man, just… come back inside, let’s figure it out.”_

_Dean nodded absentmindedly, as though considering the offer even after he’d made up his mind, “keep the girls safe until I get back, you hear me?”_

_Sam rolled his eyes tiredly, pressed his small lips together and eventually nodded._

 

This case will keep Dean’s mind off things for a while, at least until he gets back to fat books and unending scrolls of lore, dramatic teenagers and a pale-faced little brother who has been showing more signs of shutting down on himself that post-The Cage condition can’t even compare. Dean is not stupid, he figured it out: something isn’t right with Sam and the way he daydreams during a conversation, coughs and presses his arm on his side, leans heavily on the nearest immobile object prove it. But Dean is dealing with a lot right now: his best friend is being warped to God knows where, Amara is grilling some poor son of a bitch somewhere, literally too, and not to mention the spell she has on Dean is fucking effective in her close vicinity, and he needs to look after two teenage girls whose hormones are clearly all over the place but Sam is suddenly acting like that?

This is the part Dean can’t fathom; the Winchesters have always dealt, figured things out, or shoved them down, why is Sam finding it difficult to follow on the guidebook now after a simple deity case? He’s dealt with worse, God damn, why is he losing his game now?

A green road sign that reads Esbon 16 flashes by.

 

After Dean left the bunker, unescorted, Sam returned to the library to watch over the girls like he promised. And now, as the three sit there, chins on chests, faces buried in books, Sam decides it’s a bad idea.

Lucifer, in Nick’s vessel, sets the girls’ hair on fire, displays obscene gestures, gauges their eyes out and every time, Sam looks away, he knows it’s a hallucination but it doesn’t make it less sufferable to watch, Alex and Claire give him the look.

He collects his book and hooks a thump over his shoulder, “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

“Wait,” Alex comes up to him, a crease of worry marring her forehead.

He stands to full length, he doesn’t know why, maybe in an attempt to fend off her piercing look. He can even see Clair slanting closer to listen in, it makes him wary.

“Yea?”

“Are you sure you’re okay, I mean after yesterday.”

Sam is reminded of the panic attack and he wishes he’d wipe that memory from Alex’s mind, it’s enough he freaked out over something that’s not real, but he also has to bear with the reminder every time she’s around. “Um,” he starts, “yea, yea, fine, thanks by the way.”

She shows a thin smile and looks apologetically at him.

He almost deters but gets his bearings together before even Clair starts throwing questions. He doesn’t know if Alex already told her what transpired in the storage room, but as long as nobody is bringing it up, it’s a win for him.

“Roomies again,” Lucifer points out from his perch on the nightstand, “Wow, Sam, you couldn’t wait to be alone with me, is that it?”

Sam, with all dear life, ignores the hallucination and slumps on his bed, the book bounces to its edge.

“How long are you gonna keep ignoring me, Sam, I’m so bored!” Lucifer grumbles, “You know I ain’t leaving anywhere, might as well catch up. I’ve been kinda antsy since you dropped out of my sight back at The Cage, missed you a lot, you know.”

“Shut up.” Sam grits out, thumbing his temples as the migraine regains a debilitating force.

“At last, a response, still so mean to me.” Lucifer rejoices, “Come on, Sam,” he urges, now lifting up to sit on the bed too, face hovering over Sam’s. “I have to say though, you’re handling this like a pro. I mean Dean’s always been an ass, if you ask me, he’s always abused you mentally, I don’t know why you’re putting up with it.”

“Same way I’m putting up with you.” Sam rasps out, eyes closed as he feels the throbs of pain rising.

“But I’m not like Dean, Sam.” Lucifer admits, ducking lower into Sam’s space, their skin almost touching, “me? I want to give you everything.”

“Beside psychosis disorder, no thank you, I’ve been on that bus once, _Lucy_ , not gonna happen.” Sam squirms, attempting to prop up but Lucifer shoves him back onto the quilt, snaking in the process to mountain him. “Get off me.”

Lucifer cringes, like what Sam’s just demanded is a little too extreme for his taste, “Now, Sam.” He whispers, looming on said man like a nightmare, except he is, Sam’s daytime nightmare. “I’m impartial to anything you say, don’t get me wrong, I do like you, but you’re not the one driving this bus.” He shrugs, his lips suddenly parting into a Cheshire grin. “Are we in that stage of our relationship already, you know, pet names and everything?”

A bolt of pain pulsates in the scar of his gunshot wound, and Sam lurches forward, curling around his middle with his arms holding his side like a kid with a bad stomachache.

“Oh, it’s getting ugly.” Lucifer sing-songs, “better get that checked out, could be contagious.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Sam hollers, voice disembodied by the fabric of the bed sheets, and he doesn’t even know why he bothers asking, he knows Lucifer never shuts up. “God…”

“I think that’s kinda useless at this point of time, the Big Burrito left the building and he ain’t coming back, pray for Pavlov, Sam.”

 

A phone chirps, Alex perks up, peeks at its screen and, goggle-eyed, peeks at Claire.

“What?” the girl hisses.

“Chad is throwing a party at five, we both are invited.”

They share a look.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Claire glints with an eerie beam.

“For the first time I’ll be lying if I said no.” Alex chuckles, lifting up from her seat, “come on, before Dean or Sam spot us.”

 

Sam’s eyes snap open, wide irises zooming in and meeting the ceiling of his room. He props his head up, inspecting his surroundings, the calm which he enjoys for mere moments before Lucifer appears again to fuck up his days. He paws at the nightstand’s surface for his phone, and only then does he realize the ache reverberating through his body, the pulsing throb in the back of his head and the unbelievable itch in his wound.

The usual, he lies to himself, the usual.

The clock shows him ten thirty, he also finds no missed calls or unread messages, so he concludes that Dean wants nothing to do with him the entirety of the hunt, which Sam can comprehend, or attempts to anyway. He knows Dean’s been through a rough patch. He knows his big brother is carrying a lot on his shoulders, and that Sam isn’t helping by being this... sickly.

 

 

The ghost is a bit of a dick but luckily Dean manages to set it aflame right after it sends him airborne to a tree. He entombs the grave again, fetches his shovel and saunters out of Esbon Cemetery. When he gets to the Impala, he delves through the contents of the dashboard, finally finding his phone.

Two missed calls from Sheriff Mills send him spiraling with confusion and fear. He tosses the shovel in the trunk and connects the call, giving the woman a moment to pick up.

“Hey, Jody” he greets, voice deep and dark, “how’ you holding up?”

“Great, Dean, I’m great.” She stresses the last letter.

“Okay,” Dean drawls, “what’s going on, Jody?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, Dean.” She demands.

He furrows, glowering at a spot on the ground, “what’ you mean?”

“I leave Claire and Alex in you care, next thing, I get a call from Sioux Falls’ police station and find them 2OO miles away from the bunker, drunk off their asses.”

Realization downs on Dean as he wets his lips. He is going to murder Sam. “Jody, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“I know you are, Dean.” She assures, “I’m bringing them back now, called you a couple of hours ago but you didn’t pick up, girls tell me you working a case.”

Dean, as though to confirm it, scans the background. “Yea, I am.” He scrubs a hand down his face, “it’s done. I’m also heading home, catch you in two.”

“Bye Dean.”

He is going to freaking _murder_ Sam.

 

Sam leaves his bed at last, sluggish limbs leading him out of the room and into the library. With blurry eyes, he stares at the two empty seats Alex and Claire occupied before he left to pass out on his bed. He tosses his phone on the table and walks into the kitchen, his movements more piloted and focused now as terror slowly seizes him. He doesn’t find the girls there, so he tries their rooms, empty, everything is empty. He starts to panic when he calls them out but nobody answers. God, Dean is going to kill him in the most gory and painful way Lucifer will have nothing on him.

He runs back to the direction of the library, ignores how his breathing labors and his vision swims in his eyes, he locates the phone and as he taps the number, the metal gate of the bunker’s entrance rattles. Sam pauses all motions, deer in headlight look and all, waiting, anticipating.

Alex walks in first, and Sam’s legs almost give away under him, and then Claire treads in, with their shoulders slumped and hair disheveled, and eyeliner smeared down their cheeks. Sam can’t help but furrow in suspicion, now slowly nearing the war room. And then Jody, still in official garment, ducks in, followed by a visibly furious Dean.

Sam gulps.

“Not just a pissed off guardian, you also got a green-eyed bomb ready to go off,” Lucifer suddenly comments, and makes a face, “yikees!”

Sam peeks at him fervently and then looks at the four people coming down the stairs.

“I can bust a cap in his ass for you, Sam, he wouldn’t even know what hit’ m” Lucifer offers, slowly snaking into Sam’s personal space.

Sam watches intently how the girls loiter by the map table, exchanging quizzical looks, he also watches how Jody tongues her teeth and crosses her arms over chest after she stands by the stairs’ end, and then Dean, how he plods his way to his brother, expression taut and body tense with anger.

“Dean, I can explain.” Sam croaks out, taking a step to the back.

“One job, Sam, you only had one job!”

Sam grimaces under the accusation, lowers his head in defeat.

“It has begun.” Lucifer exclaims, “I know, last one to preach, but Dean’s being mean again, he needs to lay off, don’t you think, Sammy?”

“Shut up.” Sam grits out.

“Did you just shush me?” Dean marvels, fierce eyes pinning Sam’s.

Sam’s wide eyes lock with Dean’s, “I didn’t mean–”

“You didn’t mean, huh?” Dean hacks out a derisive chuckle, rests his hands on his hips and nears his brother until they’re only a feather-length away, “I told you to watch the girls, did I not?”

Sam nods vigorously, but the action aggravates his growing migraine.

“Then what the hell were you doing?” He barks, veins protruding along his neck.

“I…” Sam’s eyes flutter, dizziness swarms his head and for an odd pause, he wishes he could incline into his brother for support, “I was sleeping.”

Dean shoots his brows to his hairline, “sleeping?” he echoes, now rearing to the back and away from his brother, “I cannot believe you man, first you go off by yourself, then you start acting like you couldn’t care less and now you’re not even bothering to impress anyone, if you don’t want a part of this anymore just come out and say it!”

“It’s not like that!” Sam finally seethes, wrong thing to do obviously because it rings inside his head and he groans.

“I smell drama,” Lucifer taps an index on his lips, “but Sam, you think he cares if it’s not Cas or good ol’ Benny, not a chance, don’t waste your breath, kid.”

Sam clutches his ears and glares at Lucifer who is standing next to him, and Dean follow his eyes, his own eyebrows tremble in confusion.

“Sam!” Dean bites out, “am I ever gonna be honored to have your attention?”

“Dean, maybe you should give him a break.” Jody suggests, eyes narrowing on cue.

“A break?” Dean scoffs again, “Jody, he slept off the entire afternoon. He doesn’t need a break, he needs to get his head outta his ass.”

Sam’s right hand jerks, flexing itself in and out of a fist. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, his bleary eyes wander round the room. Then it hits his nose, the metallic scent, bitter and strong. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“It’s not gonna cut it.” Dean retorts, “you’re gonna need to do more than that, Samantha.”

“Why do you keep lying to yourself, Dean no longer loves you.” Lucifer reminds, gesticulating to Dean with his chin, “look into his eyes and you’ll find your answer. I don’t tell lies, Sam. I never told you a lie before, I’m not gonna start now.”

_You blood-sucking freak_

_I’m done trying to save you_

Sam sees a manifestation of the day he heard the hatred, solid and raw, aimed at him.

 

Dean goads him on, spurs him into action, verbal lambasting, anything, just talk god damn! Sam’s not saying anything back to Dean’s accusations, and to have this kind of reaction from the forever upright, standing individual little brother, well, it made Dean's throat constrict.

 

Sam recoils rearward with a moan, clutching at his ears and clenching at the strands of his hair.

_There ain't much difference from what I turned into and what you already are._

 

Dean watches with disbelief as the color drains from Sam’s face, leaving only a washed-out shade of gray in its wake. He balks at the thought of wanting to confirm with Jody, but when Sam moans, Dean whips his head to Jody and finds the three of them beholding Sam’s hunched form with alarming panic.

“Dean!” Jody urges, her entire posture changing.

 

_You notice I tried to get as far away from you possible? Away from your whining, your complaining. I chose the King of Hell over you. Maybe I was just... tired of babysitting you. Or always having to yank your lame ass out of the fire, since... forever. Or maybe –maybe it was the fact that my mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you, that your very existence sucked the life out of my life._

As though sucker-punched in the guts, Dean looks at Sam with an aggrieved expression, and then, unexpectedly, Sam looks up. For a glorious moment, he smiles, maybe to assure them he is fine, but the wan smile falters halfway, his eyes, pain-glazed and tear-soaked, roll under his lids and his knees buckle, bringing him down to the ground with a loud thump.

“Sam!”


End file.
